Compared to Venus flytraps, which clamp their jaw-like leaves around flies and other small, wriggly bits of prey, the various pitcher plants in existence must seem like pretty benign carnivores. Their way of capturing prey strikes me as a bit like windmill fighting: can they help it if juicy insects and ripe-looking amphibians happen to tumble into the pits of digestive enzymes waiting at the bottom of their pitcher-shaped leaves?

In fact, pitcher plants don’t consume every organism that ends up in the pit. Some of those organisms actually help pitcher plants process the other creatures they’re about to eat, somewhat like parents who cut their children’s food for them, though slightly more savage.

Nepenthes is a genus of pitcher plant found primarily in the southeast Pacific. Each leaf starts with a thin tendril at the tip, then inflates like a long balloon until finally, at maturity, a flap of leaf material at the tip opens, and a pitcher is formed.

Pitchers in general are excellent for holding liquid, and those belonging to the plants of genus Nepenthes are no exception, though the sweet, attractive nectar and the digestive enzymesthat they produce differ substantially from the iced tea you might pour yourself on a hot summer day.

As effective as the digestive juices that Nepenthes make (capable, in some species, of taking out entire mice) are, the digestion process can always stand to go more quickly. Some Nepenthes have tiny hollow chambers in their stems where ants can make their homes. Instead of falling into the pitchers, the ants snag other insects attracted by the nectar. The ants are sloppy eaters, which is a good thing for Nepenthes, as the stray insect crumbs slip into the pitcher and get digested much sooner than an entire insect would.

So some ants and some pitcher plants make good matches. Others, not so much. Sarracenia is another genus of pitcher plant; some of its member species grow from the grounds of peat bogs in North America (including Illinois’ own Volo Bog). A Sarracenia‘s pitcher looks different from that of a Nepenthes, in part thanks to a flange running the length of the leaf that creates a stream of nectar. Ants climb the leaf and follow the trail, which leads to the edge of the long, tall pit, and—whoops, in they go.

That’s not to say that Sarracenia species can’t play nicely with others. The larvae of some insects, such as the blowfly, live inside the pitcher and feed on partially digested remains, while bacteria in the water that also collects in the bottom of the pitcher help get that digestion going in the first place.

Though they pose a threat to some living creatures, pitcher plants hardly are isolated organisms, at least within a habitat. In the case of Nepenthes, our evolutionary tree suggests otherwise, as Nepenthes are believed to exist much in the same form that they have for millions of years. In other words, the Nepenthes genus has no close relatives.

Some caterpillars possess amazing defense mechanisms, the kind that exist to make parents and guardians forever fretful when their kids go out to play. Other caterpillars mimic bird poop. I guess the phrase “different strokes for different folks” applies to the non-folks of the animal kingdom as well.

The photo that inspired today’s post.

Caterpillars are the larval forms of both moths and butterflies, squishy little worm-like creatures that emerge from eggs. Their squishiness makes them incredibly attractive to several members of the animal kingdom including birds and squirrels that, like me around midnight, are always on the lookout for a snack that’s easy to eat.

So to become a bit more difficult to eat, several species’ caterpillars have evolved features along their bodies that discourage other animals from poking at them, usually through the always discouraging use of toxic chemicals. The larval forms of such frequent flyers as the Io Moth, the Buck Moth, and the Hag Moth all have bodies lined with stinging hairs and quills that are connected to poison sacs. These hairs can break skin, allowing the toxic chemical to seep beneath them. Humans who get stung by these caterpillars may experience symptoms ranging from minor irritation to everybody’s favorite, intestinal discomfort.

Given how most people feel about having a churning sensation in their lower abdomens, it’s understandable that a lot of people avoid touching caterpillars just to be on the safe side. The majority of caterpillars are not stinging caterpillars, though. Unlike the stinging caterpillars listed above, others have bumps on their bodies that appear harmful but really are just for show.

One such caterpillar is the Black Swallowtail. During some of its larval stages (and larval stages are called instars, in case you were wondering, since science has names for everything), the Black Swallowtail’s body is lined with orange bumps that protrude from the surface. They look dangerous, because often in nature red and orange are used as colors that warn predators that they’re hunting something that will seriously screw them up, but Black Swallowtail caterpillars are considered by some people one of the best caterpillars for budding entomologists to try to raise.

So how do Black Swallowtail larvae stay safe? Well, they do have one protrusion that actually does mess with other animals. It’s called an osmeterium, and it’s a Y-shaped horn located at the back of the caterpillar’s head that pops out when the little squirmster is frightened and gets retracted when it once again feels safe. The osmeterium shoots a musty-smelling liquid that, while not harmful to humans, is tinged with a distinct whiff of eau du displeasure, enough to suggest that backing away is a good idea.

But before the osmeterium even comes into play, the Black Swallowtail caterpillar defends itself in another way: similar to the Tiger Swallowtail caterpillar, during its earlier instars, its body bears a splotchy white marking right in the middle. Does this white mark carry the same suggestion of poison that red body markings do? Nope. Does it make the caterpillar look like an unappetizing piece of bird poop that squirrels and other animals are likely to pass over without a second thought? It sure does!

Alright, sure, let’s play with that pun on “the ayes have it.” What is it, exactly, that eyes have?

Well, at their most basic, the eyes of animals have three jobs, according to biologists:

the detection of light

the detection of shadows

the transmission of this information about light and dark to motor structures (because it’s one thing to be able to tell where a shadow’s coming from, quite another to be able to move away from it if you think it’s the shadow of a big, bad beast)

In the simplest kind of eye in the animal kingdom, found most often on the various tiny marine creatures we collectively call plankton, the motor structures that act on visual information aren’t muscle cells, like what you’d find in humans and other vertebrates, but cells lined with tiny hairs called cilia, which move the itty bitty organisms through their watery environments like the oars on a ship. The eye that provides these ciliated cells with info is similarly simple (alliteration away!); it’s made up of only two cells, one that receives the light, and another that processes shadows with the help of pigment.

Animal eyes range wildly in complexity, from the basic cup-shaped light and shadow detectors on the top sides of flatworms to the camera-like instruments of focus that we humans tend to roll every time we hear our bosses announce another brilliant idea for efficiency in the workplace.

There are sorts of stops in between, too. Squids and octopuses, for example, possess eyes that have lenses, as human eyes do, but lack the cells called cones that provide the human eye with the ability to perceive color. They can adjust their lenses to focus on objects near or far away but can only visualize those objects in terms of light and dark (though research suggests that octopuses have ways of reacting to color in their environments that have no parallels in human anatomy, which makes them really, really neat).

When it comes to human eyes, it’s been proposed that eyes have other functions besides the three listed above. Humans eyes not only receive information; they apparently also communicate it.

Unlike our relatives the great apes, humans have eyes that are partially white. This white part of our eyes is a structure called the sclera. The primate eye has a sclera, too, but it’s dark in color, frequently brown.

In 2006, anthropologists at the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology ran an experiment in which they had both great apes and human babies watch while researchers looked in one direction, then another, either by moving their heads or moving their eyes. The anthropologists found that the apes were more likely to follow the researchers’ gaze when the researchers moved their heads, while the human tots were more likely to follow when the researchers moved their eyes.

What this suggested is that our eyes evolved as a way of helping us cooperate on certain tasks. With our irises more visible against a white background, the researchers proposed, it would be easier to see where we were looking, so that others could see what caught our attention, too.

And let’s face it: as all the selfies on the Internet demonstrate, we spend a lot of time looking at human faces. In fact, it’s been suggested that eye contact is essential for creating a bond between a human infant and a caregiver, and that human babies spend twice as long staring into their caretakers’ eyes as primate newborns do. Is this behavior influenced by the evolution of the human eye? As always in science, research continues, but there’s a strong possibility that the eyes in this case really do have it.

Propionibacterium acnesis a bacterium that lives on human skin, deep in the pores, specifically. It hangs out near the sebaceous glands, which are the tiny glands near each that produce the oil, or sebum, each of us has lightly coating our skin and hair. P. acnes‘ strategy for life is pretty similar to the one I employ at county fairs and carnivals, which is, simply, to eat as much grease as possible. By taking up residency near the sebaceous glands, this itty bitty bacterium gets a nearly endless supply of the sebum it prefers to eat.

Unfortunately for the human host, whenever too much sebum and too many bacteria clog a pore (and whenever the body starts reacting to what it perceives as a big bacterial infection), acne can develop. A bunch of tiny bacteria can be all it takes to produce a huge, honking zit.

Our bacterial bumps aren’t nearly as bad as some of the ones plants develop, however.

Agrobacterium tumefaciens is another bacterial species with a long, lovely name. It infects plants, not humans, though the list of plants it can infect is substantial: roses, willows, maples, raspberry bushes, apple trees, cherry trees, almond trees—you get the idea. It’s a wide-reaching bacterial agent, and it’s pretty sneaky to boot.

A. tumefaciens enters a plant’s system through a fresh wound, one created through pruning and other forms of mechanical damage. Once inside, it does more than divide and conquer: it makes the plant’s own cells divide and conquer. Like a mad scientist minus the hysterical laughter, A. tumefaciens actually splices its own DNA into the DNA of a plant cell. The new DNA sequence tells the plant to produce growth-stimulating hormones. Under the hormones’ influence, the plant cells multiply so much that a cyst-like lump called a galldevelops. Lo, A. tumefaciens gets a spacious new home inside the plant tissues!

Meanwhile, circulation of water and essential nutrients within the plant gets cut off.

Although galls can develop along the stem or on the roots, A. tumefaciens is mentioned in conjunction with what’s called crown gall, which is a lump that develops at the plant’s base, right around the soil line (the area known as the crown). The recommended treatment for crown gall? In the case of young trees, it’s sometimes believed to be more economical and better for general plant health to remove the plant. Older, larger trees can have the gall removed surgically or left with the plant for the rest of its woody days if the plant is otherwise healthy.

So if ever you or someone you know ends up lamenting a sudden, uncontrolled outbreak of acne growth, just remember, it could always be worse. At least your DNA is still your own, you know?

Years and years ago, artist Bob Ross stood in front of a camera for PBS and encouraged people to get out there and paint some happy little trees. With his brush whispering across his canvas, dabbing a little color here, a little bit there, he brought entire forests to life on a two-dimensional plane.

Plants—especially flowers—probably won’t cease to be popular subjects for painters, partly because they draw the eye with their vivid colors, mostly because they don’t fidget or move while the artist studies them. In the last several years, though, agriculture has turned the idea of bringing flowers to life by painting them into a literal one.

Plants with flowers are the ones that produce fruit, which they do through the process of pollination. Flowers have male and female parts; the male parts produce pollen, the female parts receive pollen and use it to produce seeds and fruits, and humans of all genders stand by with packets of Zyrtec and Benadryl while the process happens.

Many flowering plants depend on insects like bees for pollination. Bees stick their heads into flowers to get at the pollen and the nectar they like to eat. But just as I always sometimes end up with crumbs on my shirt after a meal, the bees end up with excess pollen dusted onto their bodies. This pollen rubs off onto the female parts of the same or other flowers, and lo, fertilization occurs.

Over the last several years, however, it’s been widely reported that bee populations aren’t healthy, and entire hives are dying at once in a phenomenon called colony collapse disorder. The use of several pesticides is considered the factor mostly likely to cause CCD, though cold winter weather may exacerbate their effects.

Agriculture depends on pollination. As bees continued to die, the question became, while we’re trying to figure out how to stabilize bee populations, what can we do to keep our crops growing?

One answer came in the form of the human touch. In apple orchards in China and elsewhere, human workers applied pollen to the female parts of apple blossoms by brushing it on with paintbrushes.The technique of hand pollination, in use for centuries(though with variations—for example, sometimes the male parts are trimmed from one squash flower and brushed directly against the female flower of another, hubba hubba), became especially important to large-scale agriculture.

But human workers can’t cover the same amount of ground—or branch—that bees can. So researchers began exploring new pollination techniques to meet the demands for food placed on the worlds farmers and growers. And in a page straight out of the great science fiction stories (or other depictions of life in the future), some have proposed a new answer in the form of robots.

The Harvard Microrobotics Lab has developed what it calls Robobees, mechanical creations that look like elaborate paper clips with wings. The team at Harvard Microrobotics hopes to fit each Robobee with sensors and program it to fly among the flowers in a field. It has even proposed creating a hive to serve as a refueling station for each Robobee colony.

Of course, the feasibility of having an army of what are essentially tiny drones fly autonomously through a field still needs assessing, as does the legality of it, because hey, these are essentially tiny drones. But we continue to see if technology can sustain human society, in this case, by seeing what it can do to help flowers produce fruit and make sure the happy little trees stay happy.